“No,” said Maidie, slowly.  “I’m all right, thank you.  But I wish I could find that man again.  I know sometimes they have to make it up if their accounts are wrong, and I couldn’t—­we couldn’t feel very comfortable—­”

Frank Armstrong interrupted her.  “Maidie,” he said, with the studied calmness with which one speaks to an unreasonable child, “you are perfectly absurd.  Here it is within five minutes of the tune for the concert to begin.  It is impossible to tell when that car is coming back.  You are making us all very uncomfortable.  Mrs. Tirrell, won’t you please tell her not to spoil our afternoon?”

“I think he’s right, Maidie,” said Mrs. Tirrell.  “It’s very nice of you to feel so sorry for the poor man, but he really was very careless.  It was all his own fault.  And just think how far he made us walk!  My feet are quite damp.  We ought to go in directly or we shall all take cold, and I’m sure you wouldn’t like that, my dear.”

She led the way as she spoke, the two girls and young Armstrong following.  Maidie hesitated.  It was so easy to go in, to forget everything in the light and warmth and excitement.

“No,” said she, very firmly, and as much to herself as to the young man who stood waiting for her.  “I must go back and try to make it right.  I’m so sorry, Mr. Harris, but if you will tell them—­”

“Why, I’m going with you, of course” said the young fellow, impulsively.  “If I’d only looked once at the man I’d go alone, but I shouldn’t know him from Adam.”

Maidie laughed.  “Oh, I don’t want to lose the whole concert, Mr. Harris, and Frank, has all the tickets.  You must go after them and try to make my peace.  I’ll come just as soon as I can.  Don’t wait for me, please.  If you’ll come and look for me here the first number, and not let them scold me too much—­” She ended with an imploring little catch in her breath that was almost a sob.

“They sha’n’t say a word, Miss Williams!” cried Walter Harris, with honest admiration in his eyes.

But she was gone already, and conscious that further delay was only making matters worse, he went on into the hall.

Meanwhile, the car swung heavily along the wet rails on its way to the turning-point.  It was nearly empty now.  An old gentleman and his nurse were the only occupants.  Jim Stevens, the conductor, had stepped inside the car.

“Too bad I forgot those young people wanted to get off at Music Hall,” he was thinking to himself.  “I don’t see how I came to do it.  That chap looked as if he wanted to complain of me, and I don’t know as I blame him.  I’d have said I was sorry if he hadn’t been so sharp with his tongue.  I hope he won’t complain just now.  ’Twould be a pretty bad time for me to get into trouble, with Mary and the baby both sick.  I’m too sleepy to be good for much, that’s a fact.  Sitting up three nights running takes hold of a fellow somehow when he’s at work all day.  The rent’s paid, that’s one thing, if it hasn’t left me but half a dollar to my name.  Hullo!” He was struck by a sudden distinct recollection of the coins he had returned.  “Why, I gave him fifty cents too much!”